The Man Next Door
by Sacred Dust
Summary: ...A terrible man was tormenting her. Chasing her. No matter where she was at night, he would be there somehow. And the only thing that could keep him away, the only one who had given her one night's reprieve, was... "Daria," she whispered plaintively.
1. Part I

_Those neighbors I had just before I moved last winter. I didn't like those neighbors. They were loud. They smoked. I didn't like it when people like that came around the apartments. I was terrified one night when I heard ten or twenty of them out there, all screaming and arguing outside our doors at 3AM about some girl. I hope she's worth it guys, I thought. I hope it's worth you scaring the shit out of me and wasting your lives on arguments like this when you could be at home sleeping. You should be like me. Where there is no one else, there can be no arguments. No hassle. No pain, at least not the kind you feel. Not the kind I want to make you feel, sometimes, nurtured over 20-some years._

_I'm glad I don't live there anymore. And I don't own 'Daria'._

Ω

**The Man Next Door**

Part I

Amanda Lane stood back with her arms crossed and glowered at her latest painting, as though she could frighten it into coming out like she wanted.  
It was worth a try, she thought. Nothing else had worked so far. Try as she might to match it to the image in her mind, it was all going wrong. The lines were too thick, stark and unfriendly. They stood out against the lighter colors, which were too dark; it was as if she'd mixed black into all her paints. Hell, maybe she had.  
Truth be told, all of her designs were coming out like this. Every one frustrated her, from pottery to portraits. Too dark, too much contrast, mistakes everywhere. The projects she did on the moors of Scotland, the African savannah, the California coast-those had all been fine. Excellent, even. Maybe that was it. Maybe she'd been on so many vacations, one after another, that all her inspiration was scattered across the globe and couldn't be summoned back. But no.  
That wasn't it, she thought darkly as a car door slammed outside. It was her lack of concentration. That explained her sloppy work ever since she came back home with Trent and Jane. A lack of concentration caused by the man next door.  
She glanced at the digital clock with the numbers that changed color every hour. It was one of her most practical ideas and made her quite a bit of money, but Vincent had to build them. It said 12:27 AM.  
_I thought so. He always comes in this late._  
Amanda braced herself for bad vibes. There was always a commotion when this man came home.  
She pulled her chair up to the window and peeked out. She didn't know the man's name, hadn't even got a good look at him yet. She never saw him in daylight, only when he came staggering home in the wee hours. He fumbled around for something in his jeans and sweatshirt. They were very loose and covered him almost completely. He had probably moved up here from the south and wasn't used to the cooler temperatures.  
He failed to find whatever he was looking for-his key, most likely-and pounded on the door. Long minutes later, it finally opened and then the yelling started. Ugly words scrolled across the back of Amanda's mind. She found that she could predict almost exactly what these people would say.  
_Get your hand off my door._  
"Take your goddamn hand off my door!"  
Close. _It's my door bitch, and I'll knock on it as much as I want._  
"It's my fucking door bitch, I pound on it all I want!"  
Amanda always forgot the 'fucking' part. She didn't like that word. She didn't like the man, either.  
The fight quickly escalated and she lost track of what was happening. It was a blur of arguments, stomping, throwing things, and more arguments that seemed to go on forever. She shut the window and lay down, putting the pillow firmly over her head. The noises didn't go away. They echoed on in her mind until she thought she would go crazy.  
She wasn't getting much sleep these days.

"Mom?"  
Amanda looked up from her morning coffee. Jane had her running shoes on and was halfway out the door, leaning in to tell her something.  
"Um, Daria's coming over a little later so I can show her my new project, okay?"  
Her mother stared back in surprise. That was it? "Oh. Okay. That's nice, dear. I'm sure she'll like it."  
Jane waved and closed the door behind her.  
_She's telling me things like that now. Little things. She never used to._  
It was a good sign. Amanda had promised her-no more missing PTA meetings in Nova Scotia, no more Christmases at Angkor Wat. From now on, she would try to be a normal parent. Or, failing that, a parent who was there. Little by little, Jane was responding. Trent took longer to get used to it, but she got the message across loud and clear that night when he was practicing too late with his band.  
"Whoa," he told her afterwards. "I didn't know you could, like, yell and stuff."  
Neither did Amanda. She must have picked it up from the neighbors.

She was determined to spend this evening in peace. By 11 Amanda was huddled in the basement instead of up in the bedroom, working at her potter's wheel with Jimi Hendrix blaring from the boom box.  
There was a window near the ceiling, just above ground level. If she wanted to, she could look through it and see the neighbors' front walk. But she would not.  
Her hands kept slipping and messing up the piece. Never fight the clay, her mother had taught her. Let it take the shape it desires. But she was doing just that.  
Amanda leaned back from the wheel and threw a disconsolate glance around the basement.  
She saw a blur passing by the window.  
_No! Why did I look? Why?_  
Slowly, as if against her own will, she stepped up to the glass. She had to see.  
Even from here the man's voice was still audible. That strange, upsetting man next door. Who was he? Why did he come home so late? Why didn't she ever see him leave in the morning? Why did the noise only start when he was there?  
She should ask Trent and Jane, she thought. They were still here when he moved in. Maybe they would know.

"Maybe you could talk to your mother about this," Amanda said gently.  
Daria was nonplussed. She watched the ice melt in her lemonade. "You don't know my mother, Mrs. Lane. Even when she's home, she's not available."  
Amanda stared off into space. Were all parents as bad at their jobs as her now? The thought did not reassure her. Jane's friend was a good person, but suspicious. She didn't trust her goodness to the world. Most neglected people were that way.  
"Well, Jane's about to show me her most violent painting yet. And you know how I love a good disemboweling scene in angled strokes." Daria said as she stood up from the table.  
Amanda watched her disappear up the stairs with a twinge of sadness.  
She never thought of that man when Daria was around. But as soon as she left, he was back.

_You just get the hell out of here and bother your baby mama._  
"You just get the hell outta here and bother your baby mama!"  
She was word perfect that time.  
_If I wanted to be there I'd be there. Let me in my..._ She sighed. _...Effing house._  
"If I wanna be there I be there! Now let me in the fucking house! It's _my_ fucking house!"  
She was profoundly confused by these people. Why couldn't they stop talking? Hadn't they ever spent a quiet day together? Was this their idea of a relationship, egging each other on so the whole block could hear them? Or maybe love was never a part of it.  
There was the sound of a window breaking.  
She gasped and picked up the phone to call the police. It wouldn't fix anything, though. They would come and investigate, then they would leave and the fighting would start again the next night. Sometimes the same night.  
_I've got to get away from here,_ she thought.

"You're looking kind of tired, Mom," Trent said.  
She stood up on the chair and searched for the right pot for spaghetti in the kitchen cupboard. It would have to be cleaned first, of course. Some of these old utensils hadn't been used in years.  
"I know, honey," she said lightly. "It's just those noisy neighbors of ours. Don't you ever hear them at night?"  
"Nope. I'm always practicing at Jesse's. You didn't want us to do it here anymore, remember?"  
Something moved in the corner of her eye. It was the man's front door closing, visible through the kitchen window-and a figure walking out.  
Amanda dropped the pot and let it bang against the wall. She moved quickly to the window, trying to see him before he got in his car. She failed; the car was gone. How did he leave so quickly?  
"There he was! Right there. Did you see him?" she turned around, both excited and deeply frightened. "Trent?" He had already left the room.  
Jane never seemed to see them, either. Amanda wanted them to watch upstairs with her.

Trent wasn't in that night, however, and Jane never came home from school. She'd probably met a boy. Amanda wished she would call home. She didn't care about that sort of thing before, but now they were a real family, or at least getting there. Vincent still had to come back from Mexico. Maybe he ran into Penny down there and they were doing business together. It sounded like the kind of thing he would do on a lark.  
But she wanted him here. She wanted Vincent here and her daughter to call and the man next door to move out.  
She had no peace from him. He kept her up day and night, even when he wasn't there. His existence haunted her. How old was he? Where was his mother now? Did she know he was living this way?  
Maybe Lawndale just wasn't right for them anymore. She wanted to take her family and find a quiet place. This house was getting old and rundown, anyway. But that meant taking Jane away from her best friend. She didn't want that for her daughter-or herself, Amanda realized. _She_ did not want to leave Daria, either. And maybe not even moving would be a solution. Maybe she would hear their voices forever, no matter where she went.  
As the clock approached midnight, a car door slammed outside.  
Amanda burst into tears.


	2. Part II

Part II

"Gees, Mom. You look like me before I've had coffee," Jane tried to sound jovial, but she was obviously worried. Daria stood silently next to her, expression unreadable as always. "Are those neighbors still keeping you up at night?"  
"They're a real drag, honey," Amanda nodded wearily. She did a double take and stood up from her workbench. "Wait. You've seen them too?"  
"Nope. I just know you talk about them."  
Amanda glumly went back to painting her pots. "They're really awful. You and Trent must have _heard_ them at least once or twice."  
"'Not that I can remember. Of course, I usually have loud music on. All us teenage hooligans do these days. Nothing like a little Sonic Youth to drown out our own, right Daria?"  
Daria shrugged. "I don't know about 'hooligan'. I'm really more of a scofflaw."  
"Can we settle on 'rabble-rouser'?"  
"No dice. 'Rouser' suggests physical activity."  
Amanda interrupted their word game with some reluctance. "It's getting late, Janey. Will Daria be staying with us?"  
Jane blinked and turned to her friend, as though she hadn't planned on this but was not averse to it either. "Oh. Well..."  
"I really shouldn't. It's a school night."  
The brush slipped in Amanda's fingers.  
"There's supposed to be a marathon of that show you girls like to watch," she said as nonchalantly as possible. "I think it started already."  
"Correction. I _am_ staying with you."  
The girls retired to Jane's room as Amanda breathed a long, shaky sigh of relief. She didn't have to tell them that. But the truth was, she wanted Daria here. The only time when thoughts of the neighbors didn't overwhelm her was when that girl was around, and maybe...maybe it wouldn't be so bad if she was in the house.  
She knew how desperate that sounded. But anything was worth a try. She walked upstairs to her room where she could hear them across the hall. Predictably, Jane's TV was already going.  
_"So tell us, sir. Is it really true that your flatulence can predict the future?"  
"It's a blessing, ma'am. A blessing and a curse."_  
Amanda sat on the edge of her bed and waited to hear the man arrive. Seconds stretched into minutes, minutes into hours, and hours into a very long night.

When she opened her eyes again, the color-changing clock read 2:24 PM.  
PM? Had she slept? She sat up, shielding her eyes from the afternoon sunlight. She felt wonderful. And that meant...  
"He never came," she whispered dully. "The man next door never came home." She jumped up from the bed in amazement. "DARIA-!"  
It was her! Amanda didn't know how, but it must be because of Daria! She looked in Jane's room, which was empty, then jogged downstairs to find a note on the table.  
_Thanks for the heads up Mom,_ it said in Jane's familiar scrawl. _Don't worry, we'll get our sleep in class. Jane._  
Things like this were also new, and Amanda wanted to hold on to them. Years of trips-some physical, some mental-and a poorly applied butterfly metaphor had taken their toll, that was undeniable. She couldn't undo the damage of those things, but she could put a hard surface under her feet and start building something. She'd been doing that since she came back last week. If only they didn't have that man next door, she was sure it would be okay. They could make the Lanes a real family, fragmented but functional.  
Until midnight. Then, there was no rest at all.  
She laughed softly. This intolerable man, whoever he was, left her three choices. One, take her family and leave, which was out of the question right now. Two, get rid of the man, and unlike Daria's fictional secret agent, she had neither the spine to 'neutralize' someone nor the clearance to do so with impunity. Which left number three: avoid the man in any way she could.

"Sure is a thick one tonight," the security guard remarked as she jotted something down in her log book.  
"Yup," the hotel clerk replied after an awkward pause. "It's great, isn't it? I like fog."  
"What, even when you're driving?"  
He smiled and nodded. He hadn't looked up from his computer screen.  
"I don't know how I'm going to get home in the morning."  
"Stick around," he shrugged, with no indication of whether he was joking or not. "Plenty of empty rooms."  
A pair of headlights finally cut through the night as an old beat-up sedan parked at the front.  
The clerk winced and stood up from the chair. "Who would be out in this?"  
The woman was somewhere in her forties or fifties, in that undefined place where women with outer and inner beauty seemed to reside forever. Her outfit was nothing special, though-moccasins, drawstring pants and a light spring jacket. A holdover hippie if he'd ever seen one. She smiled kindly as she approached the desk. But as she got closer one could see a vague, haunted look about her, a few too many glances over the shoulder.  
"Hi. Do you have any single rooms available?" she asked.  
Her voice was like the rest of her, dreamy and pleasant and somehow, not completely of this world.

By the time she'd pulled into the lot, the fog was so thick that it was easy to forget what state she was in. She left a note with some excuse and took off at 11, knowing nobody could find her in a place like this if she didn't want to be found.  
It was an old motel, with all the doors opening to the outside. Her room was small, but adequate, and at least the TV worked. She flipped numbly through the channels as she'd seen her son do so many times. She understood him. Looking for something to watch was easier than looking for something to do. And what could someone do with herself under these circumstances? Hide, she decided. She didn't like leaving Jane and Trent alone, but Daria wasn't visiting tonight-and the neighbors couldn't bother her if she wasn't there.  
She pressed the remote again. The TV switched from the weather to some reality show with a lot of young people screaming at each other.  
Amanda sighed and switched the TV off.  
The screaming didn't stop.  
"I done told you I was gonna be here! Open the fucking door!"  
"I got the phone in my hand right now! I'm calling the cops _right now_ if you don't leave me alone!"  
Icy terror settled in the pit of her stomach as she jumped off the bed and peeked out through the curtains. Just outside, arguing loudly with someone in another room, was the very same man.  
The man next door.  
Amanda recoiled against the far wall, barely swallowing a scream. Her whole body shook.

The sound of screeching tires and a car tearing out of the parking lot was audible at the desk.  
"What the hell?" the clerk glared, vaguely upset at the distraction as he picked up a walkie-talkie. "Front desk to security."  
"Sorry Dusty, it happened so fast I didn't see who it was," she replied on the other end.  
"Well, is anything else going on out there?"  
A pause, then the walkie crackled again.  
"Nope. I don't see anything."

She hadn't stopped shaking when she raced back into the Lawndale city limits. It was a small miracle the police didn't stop her. She wanted nothing to do with them either. They would probably think she was high as well as a speed demon.  
But she'd been sober for seven years, seven whole years. _Wake up Amanda,_ one of her friends told her, _it's 1993._ She had no notion of where she was, nor that the new year had come and gone. She'd called it quits after that.  
But then the fear started. The fear of responsibility, of seeing the toll those years had taken on her family. That was what kept her away from home so much, and perhaps it was the same for Vincent. She'd never asked what his reasons were. He was a bit of a puzzle himself; it was what had attracted her to him so long ago, that and the promising haze rising from the communal tent...  
But she forced herself back into the present. It was the year 2000, and a terrible man was tormenting her. Chasing her. No matter where she was at night, he would be there somehow. And the only thing that could keep him away, the only one who had given her one night's reprieve, was...  
"Daria," she whispered plaintively.  
Amanda drove faster.


	3. Part III

Part III

One tiny vertical line floated in a universe of white, blinking endlessly.  
If she waited long enough, Daria wondered, would this line take on a life of its own? Communicate with her in morse code? Perhaps it would even write a story for her. She certainly wasn't having any luck tonight.  
She turned off the monitor and sank back in her chair. _What do you call a writer with no inspiration?_ she'd once asked Jane.  
_A bestseller?_ her friend suggested.  
Daria smiled a little. Was making a living as a writer so important to her that she would sink to the kind of banality she now criticized? Possibly. Career choices for intellectually honest people were scarce, and she'd never pictured herself as anything but a writer.  
The phone rang. She barely stirred, knowing Quinn would snatch it up in two rings at the most.  
"Harry? You were supposed to be outside three hours ago, you jerk!" her sister's voice said faintly from the other end of the hall. A pause. "Oh. Sorry Mrs. Lane! You want to talk to my mom?" Another pause. "Oh, her? No, she's still up. Oookay, just a second."  
Exaggerated footsteps on the carpet led to an unceremonious thump on her door. "Hey DAH-ria! You know that one friend you have? Um, her mom wants to talk to you and stuff."  
"Thank you, Quinn. You know that one brain cell you have? Use it to go away now."  
Stomp, stomp, thud.  
Daria picked up her receiver.

Amanda once heard that there were two kinds of people: those who were taught that the world was a safe place, and those who were taught that the world was a scary place. She was the first kind. The world had never seemed so frightening before, nor had she been prone to anxiety or high stress.  
Now she stood huddled over a pay phone in a gas station down the block from the Morgendorffers' house, praying for an answer, jumping every time someone walked in. If the man could show up at the hotel, he could show up anywhere. For all she knew, he would barge in in ten seconds and start yelling at the clerk for chewing gum.  
_"Hello, Mrs. Lane? Is everything all right?"_  
She exhaled softly.  
Daria's voice was flat and sonorous, with an insincere tone that was calculated to put people off. But it could also protect them. No wonder Jane spent so much time with her. Against this girl's voice, nothing could stand.  
_"...Mrs. Lane? Are you there?"_  
"Sorry, Daria. I'm here. I..." She paused. She had no idea what to say.  
Thank you for saving me.  
You're so wonderful.  
I wish you would move in with us.  
No. These things should not be said.  
_"What's wrong? Does Jane need me for something?"_ Now she sounded worried.  
"No, everything's fine!" Amanda tried to sound reassuring. "I'm sorry. It's just that Trent and Janey are busy, and...I can't sleep. I guess I need someone to talk to."  
Why not? It was all true, as far as it went.  
_"Talk? Um...I'm not very good at that."_ Daria sounded wary.  
"Janey tells me that isn't your style. But she also tells me you're a very good writer," Amanda replied. "I'm sorry to impose on you. But...do you think you could read me one of your stories?"  
There was a pause. A long pause.  
It sounded ridiculous. It sounded weird. She was going to say no, Amanda thought. She was going to say no and ask Jane what was wrong with her mother, and then Janey would start asking her questions, and then...  
_"That depends. Would you rather have mind-blowing nightmares or stick with the insomnia?"_  
Amanda blinked back tears of relief. She relaxed her white-knuckled grip on the phone. Everything would be okay-at least for tonight.  
"I was a hippie, Daria. My mind is already blown." she smiled.

"Trent?" Jane asked.  
Loud guitar noise-some might call it music-drowned out her voice before it left the basement doorway.  
"TRENT?"  
She tried a few more times to get his attention, finally walking in and unplugging the amp.  
He turned around. "Hey. What gives?"  
"My hearing, that's what's about to give. Do you know where Mom is?"  
Trent shrugged. "She left a note saying she had to take some pottery out of storage in Boston. She'll be back in the morning."  
"Oh. I thought she was done moving her stuff back in. Well, thanks." Jane walked slowly back upstairs. With no inspiration striking and nobody else to talk to, she made for the phone and called Daria's number.  
Busy signal.  
Rats. It was probably her sister tying up the line again.

A curious feeling of satisfaction stole over Daria as she opened her last Melody Powers story on the computer. People rarely expressed any interest in her writing. Mrs. Lane knew that most of her stories were about the murderous exploits of a government-sanctioned fanatic, right? Well, she did ask for it...  
"A ringtone of 'Proud to Be An American' echoed across the mezzanine.  
_Damn,_ Agent Melody Powers thought as she opened her eyes. _There goes my chance for a full-body tan._  
Still, she couldn't resist a new opportunity to fill a few more cemeteries with communist scumbags. She wrapped a towel around herself and walked briskly over to the table to answer her phone.  
'Powers.'  
'Good afternoon, Agent,' said a gruff voice. 'This is Colonel Manley speaking.'  
Ahh, the Colonel. A patriot of the highest order. Melody had worked with him on prior occasions, and the name seemed fitting. She wouldn't mind finding out just how 'Manley' he was.  
'Of course, Colonel. What can I do for you?'  
'About twenty Russians. If you think you're up to the task. We'll pick you up at 1400 hours. Bring your black pajamas. It'll be a stakeout.'  
Melody smiled. It was going to be a good day."

"So, who do you think is closer to snapping? Barch or DeMartino?"  
"Definitely the misandrist. DeMartino just likes being on the edge."  
Amanda smiled at the familiar repartee.  
When she drove back to the house last night, the sun was almost up. It was good enough. The man next door never came out in the daytime. She had slept like a log until noon.  
"Say, your line was busy all last night. Was Quinn setting up her dates for the rest of the month?"  
Daria hesitated only briefly. "You know her. She always plans ahead. Except for things that actually matter."  
She was covering for them. "Would you mind not telling Janey? I don't want her to think I was bothering you," Amanda had asked. And once again Daria came through.  
She loved Daria's writing, and said so. True, her character was utterly tasteless and represented everything Amanda protested in college. But it was deliberate, and that was the genius of it. It was wish-fulfillment of the kind so many people kept hidden. If only that secret agent could visit the man next door.  
She pretended she wasn't watching them as she trailed a paintbrush around the rim of the urn.  
"Looks like Quinn kept you up all night too." Jane said sympathetically.  
**D.** Amanda began to spell out 'Damocles' on the urn, just above the illustration.  
"Well, this is just my peppy," Daria smirked. "Would you like to see my perky?"  
"…I'll get you for that one, Morgendorffer."  
**A.**  
"Hey, don't blame me. You're the one who peddled your soul to the cheerleaders."  
"It was for that dumb assignment."  
"Which you failed by succeeding at your goal," Daria brushed her hair away from her glasses. It was hypnotic, the way it shifted and rested so gently on her shoulder as she walked past the table.  
**R.**  
Amanda stopped painting. What was she doing?  
She stared numbly at the urn as the girls went upstairs.

Always a fuss. Always a fight. All through the night it continued, mercilessly. What would she do when summer came, when the nights got longer?  
She wanted to stop this. She tried to wait it out.  
"Get out of the way!" his voice carried easily to the window. Couldn't the rest of the neighborhood hear it? Was she the only one who ever called the police on them? "I'm _getting_ in my house, you hear me?!"  
_It's not your house anymore. You can just get out of here…_  
"Not anymore it ain't your house! So you can just move your ass on out of here!"  
The woman was always just inside the doorway. Amanda never saw her. But somehow she knew the woman wasn't as bad as the man. She wanted to help her, go out there and tell the man off. But she was too scared.  
"You get those bitches the fuck out of my house!"  
Were there other women in there? Friends? Family members? They must be scared out of their wits with this happening every night. Just like her. They were from the south, she could tell that much from their accents. Why was it important? Maybe it wasn't.  
Amanda massaged her forehead with dread as she turned to the phone. It was this or alcohol. Or something stronger. And she couldn't go down that road again, not ever.  
Her hand settled on the receiver.  
She never asked for this. Never asked for this man, this torture. Never asked for Daria to mean so much to her.  
To be so perfect.  
Amanda bit her lip as she dialed. Her feet were ice cold.


	4. Part IV

Part IV

"Haven't you noticed how weird she is lately?" Jane asked.  
"Not really," Daria said noncomittally. "Don't hippies have to act weird by definition?"  
Jane smirked as she smeared various dark shades on her canvas. "True. What the hell, maybe Mom was always this way. I saw so little of her before this that it's hard to be sure. Still..."  
Daria waited, not looking up from her writing magazine.  
"...It's been okay. Having her back here, I mean." Jane's tone had softened. "Besides those neighbors she keeps talking about, everything's fine. I think she's actually trying to be our mother now."  
"I hope this unexpected positive development doesn't hurt your inspiration."  
The artist gestured with her brush. "See for yourself."  
Daria spared a glance at the painting. It was a peace sign, one half dull and faded, the other half alive with color. It was an image that would stick in her mind.  
The truth was, Daria had noticed everything. Jane's mother _was_ acting odd, and not just because she was looking to her for company. It seemed odd how she always called at the same time each night, and as willing as she was to hear the deranged adventures of Melody Powers, Daria felt there was something more to it.  
Seeing her in person confirmed those suspicions. She looked more alert than usual these days. Fearful, even. Her eyes watched everything, especially Daria. She'd caught her staring more than once.  
Mrs. Lane seemed…needy, almost desperate. And there was something unsaid, something that was eating at her. At first Daria only felt it some of the time; now it was constant. It was almost like there was a third person in the room.  
It was unsettling—no question about that. But that didn't mean it was bad. As hard as she tried to avoid it, this woman had piqued her curiosity.  
She wanted to find that third person.

The very best part of Amanda's day was when she answered the door and saw Daria standing there. There was something so wonderful, so soothing about it that she couldn't explain.  
"Come on in," Amanda said warmly. "Trent is practicing over at Jesse's, but Janie is upstairs."  
Everything was fine. She could breathe. Maybe she would be safe another night.  
The girl studied her for a moment. Her glasses looked like twin microscopes that could see every flaw, every little deception. Amanda tried not to squirm.  
"I bought some of that show you girls like on DVD."  
Daria nodded. "Mm."  
"Janie wanted to show it to you." Amanda forced a smile.  
Daria stared harder. "You really don't want me to go home tonight, do you?"  
God, no. Daria was so wonderful, so helpful even though she didn't realize it. Amanda would do anything to convince her to stay. "Of course not, sweetie. We all like having you here."  
"That's not what I mean. And don't call me sweetie."  
Oops. "Sorry...Daria," Hope flickered in her normally dull eyes. "But only if you call me Amanda."  
"Blackmailing me with pet names, huh? I see what you did there, Mrs...um, Amanda."  
Her tone was almost pleasant. Amanda watched her go and turned back to her wood carving with a vengeance.  
The figurine had large glasses and a bored expression.

The church bells rang that Sunday morning, just as they did everywhere. But in a city like this one, they rang especially hollow.  
A grubby gas station attendant with a dirty blonde mullet winced at the noise. "Not those goddamn bells again. Church?! The only losers in this town who still go there are those wussy families up the block. Oh, and the chicks from the women's shelter. I'll give them something to worship any day of the week." He chuckled lecherously. "Twice on Sundays!"  
"Excuse me, sir," the bearded man in the car said pleasantly. "Women's shelters have a very important place in society, and when we and other men diminish them with insensitive jokes, it really just underscores the point. Now please fill up my tank for me. Mmmkay?"  
The attendant did so, grumbling all the while. "My dad always hated that shelter. Stole one of his women, he said. The only one he really liked. Some little blonde hippie chick, so high she didn't even know which way he was doin' her. Sounds like my kinda woman, know what I mean?"  
The customer shook his head and sighed.  
The bells had stopped, but their echo carried a long way.

"I keep calling the police," Amanda said to Trent the next afternoon. "But they don't _do_ anything. They came out a few times, but only for a little while. How can those people fight every night? And it's always the same argument."  
Her son shrugged. The idea was foreign to him too, if only because he wouldn't have the energy to do it. "You got me, Mom. But that's kind of why I'm in the band. Even if the sound we make isn't that great, it drowns out the world, you know?"  
She had to smile at that. But again her eyes drifted to the dining room windows. It was starting to rain outside. She hoped the man next door got soaked tonight.  
"Hey, which neighbors are you talking about? The Dollets, or the ones across the street?"  
Amanda put a finger on her chin. "Well, they're one of the houses next to us. So they must be the Dollets. It's the same man, coming home every night at 11 or 12 and starting a fight."  
"Hmm," Trent slowly searched his memory as he tuned his guitar. "You sure it's not a woman? Mr. Dollet is hardly ever there. The red house on the left, right?"  
"No," Amanda shook her head irritably. "The white one with green shutters."  
He frowned. "Umm...you must be thinking of something else. It can't be _that_ one."  
"What do you mean?!" She felt a terrible sinking feeling, like her whole body was collapsing in on itself. Or was it just her mind?  
"Mom, nobody lives there. The place has been empty for three years."  
Daria and Jane stood next to him, nodding slowly. Amanda hadn't even seen them enter the room.  
She stared. Her mouth opened, then shut, then opened again.  
"No." Amanda whispered.  
"Huh?"  
_"No._ That's not right, Trent. It can't be right!" she nearly shouted. She ran for the front door.  
Drops of cold rain pelted her as she ran across the lawn and up to the house next door. Her heart felt like it was pounding out of her chest.  
No man next door? That was ridiculous. Of course he was there, along with his wife and the friends she had over! Amanda would drag them all outside if she had to-to show her kids, to tell them she was tired of their unbearable noise and that they were driving her crazy.  
The door was barred. Was the woman that desperate to keep the man out? Amanda didn't care. She pounded on it with her fists, but no one answered. She ran to the nearest window and was trying to force it open when she felt Trent's hands on her shoulders.  
"Whoa, whoa! Mom!" It was the first time he'd raised his voice in years.  
"Let me go," she snapped. "I need to get in there. I have to talk to them!"  
"Mom! Just look in there!" Jane shouted over the rain.  
Amanda looked back at the window. The front room was empty, unfurnished, and covered with dust. Was the man's house so badly kept up?  
Jane stepped up next to her and pointed. "See? It's empty. Nobody comes in and or out of there."  
"Amanda." Daria said calmly. Just hearing that voice was enough to relax her a little. "As fun as it would be to stand out here and die of pneumonia, I think we should go inside and talk."

"What's this stuff?" Trent eyed his steaming mug with suspicion.  
"Mr. O'Neill gave me his echinacea recipe," Daria said drily. "Now, shall we get down to business?"  
The four of them were huddled around the kitchen table with towels over their shoulders. Amanda felt their eyes on her, and the questions they didn't want to ask: what's wrong with her? Is she seeing things? Is she back on drugs? But she wasn't, and she knew what she'd been seeing and hearing this past week.  
"I...I guess I was confused. I'm sorry for all the bad vibes back there." she said weakly.  
Daria was gentle but firm. "Don't apologize. We just had a failure of communications. Which can be fixed as soon as you tell us what you saw and when."  
Amanda shook her head slowly. "But the house...you were right. It's empty. If you can't believe me about that, why would you believe the rest of it?"  
No wonder nobody else ever saw or heard them. No wonder the police dispatcher always gave her the runaround. He must think she was crazy.  
_Am I? Did all the trips catch up with me? Am I just losing my mind?_  
_No,_ Daria's expression said firmly.  
Jane and Trent glanced between Daria and their mother-sensing, perhaps, that this was between them more than anyone else.  
Daria crossed her arms. "I've seen my family hallucinate spirit animals, I've been followed by a woman who thought she was a teenager, and at one point I think I talked to anthropormophic holidays. Go ahead, make my day."  
Amanda smiled in spite of herself. She knew she could count on Daria. Where did that feeling come from? When did it start? She could think about that later.  
She stared into her mug of something-or-other and began to talk.


	5. Part V

_**"There's no difference between illusion and reality, to the person experiencing it." -Shion Uzuki.**_

Part V

_Three weeks later_

It was the month of June, and a merciless sun baked the streets of Highland. Nobody with any sense was spending their leisure time outside today. But for some, there was no other time.  
An ancient black van with Maryland plates coughed and lurched down the street. For a moment it looked as if it might break down before reaching its destination, but finally it came to a crooked stop in front of an old white house.  
"Is this it?" Jane leaned between Trent and her mother to look out the passenger's side window.  
Amanda nodded silently.  
"Yeah," Daria said grimly. "That's the one."  
Trent relaxed in the driver's seat and turned up the AC. Fortunately for them, it was one of the few things that still worked. "Hey, you were right, Mom. It does look like the one next door."  
"But what were you doing here in the first place?" Jane added.  
Her mother hesitated and glanced at Daria.  
"Amanda, if you don't spill the whole story to them right now, I'll be forced to call in a hypnotist." She said.  
Amanda smiled. "Come on, then. Let's sit down in the back."

Trent passed around some water as they sat down on crates and boxes.  
"I didn't remember it until about a week ago," Amanda said after a long drink. She seemed to be staring past them, into another time and place. "And only with the help of the doctor. And Daria too, of course."  
"You know me. I couldn't miss the chance to watch someone else's trauma therapy."  
Jane swallowed hard. "Trauma?"  
"I suppose it was," Amanda nodded slowly. "It's not easy for me to go back to this, but Daria is right. You and Trent should know about it, too."  
They nodded and leaned in. Even Trent looked rather concerned.  
"If you try to hold a butterfly in your hands, it will die. You have to let it go, and…" she said dreamily. "Well, you know the rest of it, right Janie?"  
Jane grimaced. "As if I could forget."  
"I know you got tired of hearing that after a while. But do you know who told it to me?"  
"Grandma?"  
Amanda shook her head. "Vincent. He told me that back when we were dating. And it sounded so nice. So simple. I went right along with it when I married him, when I had you…I thought it was the right thing at the time. We had a very open marriage."  
"I figured that out a long time ago." Jane said levelly.  
"Penny told me that Summer and Wind's dad used to hang around sometimes," Trent added. "He disappeared after a while, though."  
Amanda nodded, though her eyes never left her feet. "Well, that was how Vincent and I lived for a long time. We didn't really plan anything out. We just went wherever we wanted, and that's what brought me down this way about seven years ago. My friend Willow wanted to see this art exhibit in Mexico and I decided to tag along."  
"Willow Yeager, right?" Daria asked.  
"Right. She was a friend of your parents, but I don't think we ever met them until your family moved to Lawndale. And by then they weren't exactly hippies anymore." Amanda smiled a little. It was funny how life could take people in such different directions. She wished that hers had been a little different, but what was done was done.  
"Mom?" Trent prompted her.  
She snapped out of it. "Sorry. Anyway…on the way down, we stopped here and went to a party with some friends of hers. I think it was New Year's Eve. I met a man there who was about my age, and…left with him." Amanda glanced up to see her daughter staring a hole through her. "It was a mistake. We were both drunk, and when I tried to leave, he became very violent."  
Jane softened. "He hit you?"  
"Quite a few times," Amanda said numbly, as though it had happened to someone else. "I had to run into the street to get away from him. But I couldn't find Willow and her friends, and somebody was kind enough to take me to…this house." She gestured to the window. "I don't know who lives there now, but at the time it was a women's shelter. I was already scared to death, and I guess I forgot what happened there. Maybe I wanted to."

_She had barely arrived at the shelter before the noise started.  
"Hey!" a man bellowed from outside. "Open this door right now!"  
Amanda took a shaky step back. Her nerves frayed. Her heart sickened. This, she realized, was fear. She'd gone her whole life thinking she was immune to this. Then it touched her twice in one night. First it brought her here, and now it had her trapped.  
The woman by the door was small and dark and in her early forties. She had never been pretty, but there was strength in her, a hard look in her eyes. If she was frightened too, she was hiding it well.  
"Don't you worry none about him," she told Amanda and the other women. There were five of them, all on younger side, all looking just as scared as she was. "Just keep out of sight, you hear?"  
The voice came again. It sounded angry. Angry and drunk. "I ain't leaving 'til you open up!"  
"Take your goddamn hand off my door!" the woman turned and shouted back.  
"It's my door bitch, I bang on it all I want!"  
"I got the phone in my hand! I'm calling the cops _right now _if you don't leave me alone!" the woman was reaching for the cordless phone on the kitchen wall._

_Amanda realized she was still standing there. If he came in, he would see her._

Move, _she screamed at herself, but her legs took forever to respond. She was still half in the bag and aching from the bruises all over her body. The fear might have been the only thing keeping her conscious.  
Finally she managed to stumble into the nearest closet. It wouldn't close all the way, but it was all she had at the moment. She could still see what was happening through the crack.  
The woman opened the front door but kept the chain locked. She showed him the phone in her hand. "I'm gonna call them!"  
The man was large, powerful, and clearly intoxicated. He wore a hooded sweatshirt and jeans. His face was a furious blur. ""Get out of the way Myra! I'm _getting _in my house, you hear me?!"  
The woman looked him straight in the eye. "Not anymore it ain't your house! So you can just move your ass on out of here!"  
"You get those bitches the fuck out of my house!"  
_He knows we're here, _Amanda thought with alarm.  
The man tried to push open the door and look inside, but the chain stopped him.  
Myra wasn't backing down. "You just get the hell outta here and bother your baby mama! You don't live here no more!"  
"If I wanna be there, I be there! Now let me in the fucking house! It's MY fucking house!"  
The man threw his shoulder into the door. The chain broke.  
Amanda cringed and shrank into the back of the closet, praying he wouldn't see her.  
He weaved into the kitchen Before Myra could dial 911, he ripped the receiver out of her hand and threw it out the window, smashing the glass.  
"Where are they?!" he screamed. "You ain't letting no one stay in my house!"_

_The little girl outside was used to these noises by now. She didn't really care; she just wanted to get home and read. But when it happened right in front of her, and a phone rolled across the grass and right at her feet, it seemed only fair to call the police—just in case someone hadn't done it already._  
_You never knew in this town._

_"If you won't tell me I'll find them myself!" The man stomped around the kitchen, throwing open any cupboard large enough for a person to fit in. He was getting closer. Amanda could hear him breathing. Myra was screaming at him, but she couldn't stop him._  
_Now the closet door flew open and there he was, looming over her like a storm cloud._  
_"Who the hell are you?!"  
"Excuse me." a voice interrupted.  
They all turned to see a little girl in a light blue shirt and shorts standing just outside the doorway. Her eyes peered out dispassionately from behind thick glasses and a fringe of thick brown hair. She was a sobering sight in more ways than one.  
"Um, the police are on their way," she said. "Which, by the looks of it, is bad news for all three of you. Bye."  
She set down the phone and walked off. Nobody protested-not even the man, who now stared at his hands as if just realizing what he was doing. With a handful of words, she had rendered him powerless._

The rest of it was a blur. There was no more yelling after that, only a few sirens and a bunch of people talking. Soon everything went dark, and when Amanda came to at Willow's ("wake up Amanda, it's 1993..."), she did not remember what had happened.  
But the wonderful feeling when that little girl appeared-that would stay with her, buried deep in her mind with all the rest of it. Now she knew who that child was, and why she wanted to be close to her when the voices returned again.  
She spent years searching for the next inspiration, the next man, the next high. Those years on the road seemed so easy that she didn't see how hard they really were-not only on her, but on her family. It was a relief when she finally mellowed and came back to a house that, until now, had never been home. But while Amanda may have stopped running, her past did not. It was catching up with her every day. And, once again with Daria's help, she had managed to face it.

Jane was quiet on the ride back. "So...Daria, what about you? Do you remember any of this?"  
"Some of it," Daria shrugged. "Not enough to recognize your mom five years later. Just that I called the cops on three crazy-looking people, and one of them did look like your mother when I thought about it."  
"It seems crazy. I mean, that you met my mom in Highland [i]before[/i] you met me and we didn't even know it."  
"What can I say? I'm a real social butterfly," Daria deadpanned. She turned and called to Trent in the front. "Are we almost there?"  
He grinned. "Oh, yeah. 187 Stanhope Lane, right?"  
"Right. Good thing Amanda remembered where Mr. Woman-Beater lives. Same name on the mailbox?"  
"Yep. Can't pronounce it, but it starts with 'I'."  
The eldest Lane shook her head. "I really shouldn't be letting you do this."  
"Come on, Mom," Jane took a few cans of spray paint out of her bag. "We drove 1700 miles to get here. Let's make a few more memories before we leave."  
"As in, good memories. For a change," said Daria.  
"Just don't take off without us," Trent stopped in front of a rundown house with no car in the driveway. "Remember, we're all in this together."  
Amanda looked at her children and smiled. She felt wonderful, like a brand new person. "I'm not going anywhere."

_**THE END**_

Ω

Ω

_Author's Note:__ Not much to say about this one that wasn't said already. Just that, even though it's dark and pretty weird in parts, I like it as much as anything I've written. I've always like Amanda Lane and wanted to do something with her character. It was supposed to be a two-parter, but I drew it out for dramatic effect and to figure out exactly what was happening. Our memories are a part of us. They never really go away. Nor do our chances to make up for bad decisions in life, however slim they are._


End file.
